The Essential Works of Tagore. Rabindranath Tagore

is hidden by the birds' wings, by the star-fires, by the flowers of the wayfaring seasons.

      And I ask my heart if its blood carries the wisdom of the unseen way.

VII

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      Alas, I cannot stay in the house, and home has become no home to me, for the eternal Stranger calls, he is going along the road.

      The sound of his footfall knocks at my breast; it pains me!

      The wind is up, the sea is moaning. I leave all my cares and doubts to follow the homeless tide, for the Stranger calls me, he is going along the road.

VIII

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      Be ready to launch forth, my heart! and let those linger who must.

      For your name has been called in the morning sky.

      Wait for none!

      The desire of the bud is for the night and dew, but the blown flower cries for the freedom of light.

      Burst your sheath, my heart, and come forth!

IX

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      When I lingered among my hoarded treasure I felt like a worm that feeds in the dark upon the fruit where it was born.

      I leave this prison of decay.

      I care not to haunt the mouldy stillness, for I go in search of everlasting youth; I throw away all that is not one with my life nor as light as my laughter.

      I run through time and, O my heart, in your chariot dances the poet who sings while he wanders.

X

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      You took my hand and drew me to your side, made me sit on the high seat before all men, till I became timid, unable to stir and walk my own way; doubting and debating at every step lest I should tread upon any thorn of their disfavour.

      I am freed at last!

      The blow has come, the drum of insult sounded, my seat is laid low in the dust.

      My paths are open before me.

      My wings are full of the desire of the sky.

      I go to join the shooting stars of midnight, to plunge into the profound shadow.

      I am like the storm-driven cloud of summer that, having cast off its crown of gold, hangs as a sword the thunderbolt upon a chain of lightning.

      In desperate joy I run upon the dusty path of the despised; I draw near to your final welcome.

      The child finds its mother when it leaves her womb.

      When I am parted from you, thrown out from your household, I am free to see your face.

XI

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      It decks me only to mock me, this jewelled chain of mine.

      It bruises me when on my neck, it strangles me when I struggle to tear it off.

      It grips my throat, it chokes my singing.

      Could I but offer it to your hand, my Lord, I would be saved.

      Take it from me, and in exchange bind me to you with a garland, for I am ashamed to stand before you with this jewelled chain on my neck.

XII

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      Far below flowed the Jumna, swift and clear, above frowned the jutting bank.

      Hills dark with the woods and scarred with the torrents were gathered around.

      Govinda, the great Sikh teacher, sat on the rock reading scriptures, when Raghunath, his disciple, proud of his wealth, came and bowed to him and said, "I have brought my poor present unworthy of your acceptance."

      Thus saying he displayed before the teacher a pair of gold bangles wrought with costly stones.

      The master took up one of them, twirling it round his finger, and the diamonds darted shafts of light.

      Suddenly it slipped from his hand and rolled down the bank into the water.

      "Alas," screamed Raghunath, and jumped into the stream.

      The teacher set his eyes upon his book, and the water held and hid what it stole and went its way.

      The daylight faded when Raghunath came back to the teacher tired and dripping.

      He panted and said, "I can still get it back if you show me where it fell."

      The teacher took up the remaining bangle and throwing it into the water said, "It is there."

XIII

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      To move is to meet you every moment,

       Fellow-traveller!

      It is to sing to the falling of your feet.

      He whom your breath touches does not glide by the shelter of the bank.

      He spreads a reckless sail to the wind and rides the turbulent water.

      He who throws his doors open and steps onward receives your greeting.

      He does not stay to count his gain or to mourn his loss; his heart beats the drum for his march, for that is to march with you every step,

      Fellow-traveller!

XIV

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      My portion of the best in this world will come from your hands: such was your promise.

      Therefore your light glistens in my tears.

      I fear to be led by others lest I miss you waiting in some road corner to be my guide.

      I walk my own wilful way till my very folly tempts you to my door.

      For I have your promise that my portion of the best in this world will come from your hands.

XV

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      Your speech is simple, my Master, but not theirs who talk of you.

      I understand the voice of your stars and the silence of your trees.

      I know that my heart would open like a flower; that my life has filled itself at a hidden fountain.

      Your songs, like birds from the lonely land of snow, are winging to build their nests in my heart against the warmth of its April, and I am content to wait for the merry season.